He was the “spice” in our rice and curry, is how a veteran Public Servant now retired but well-known for his writings, described Anthony Michael Hettiarachchi.
Their paths had crossed when the Public Servant was serving in Anuradhapura and Hetti as he was called by all those around him was a journalist based there writing for the Lake House group.
Tough and frank to the point of being hurtful sometimes, Hetti was to the six of us, our Dad, a powerful influence in our lives. He was a no-nonsense person who would call a spade a spade wherever it was needed, in the highest or lowest of company, making many an enemy, a trait he has passed down to all his children.
However, whenever he felt he had made a mistake he would also be the first to concede so humbly, and with absolute sincerity say, “I am sorry”.
Amidst the toughness and regimentation not only the Jesuits of St. Aloysius College, Galle, but also his stint in the army had inculcated in him, to me and my siblings there are many memories of a man who would throw caution to the winds to protect anyone, his family and friends as well as strangers from injustice. He would be the first one to defend the underdog and extend a helping hand, fully supported by my mother, who was the perfect foil to his flamboyant personality. (Their marriage lasted 64 years, until his death and she still weeps for him.)
Personally, tiny wisps of memory from the innermost recesses of my mind float by of an excited six-year-old eager to see what “present” the family had got for her. Imagine her surprise, when after school, she is led to the boot of the car and is mesmerised by a python, lying on a gunny, that Daddy had picked up on the road as an “exotic” gift.
There was also that first book, another birthday present, as a tiny tot, I remember vividly even many, many decades later – it was a pop-up book on farm animals that I believe I still have somewhere, launching me to an exciting world. Then, of course, there were the more serious books, one which stands out, about the massacre of the Jews in the gas chambers of Nazi Germany, that I read when I was about eight or nine years old.
I also remember the austere years, both for the country and our family with six children of different ages, the early ’70s when I wanted to play tennis. A racquet cost a princely sum of Rs. 150 and if I recall right his salary may have been around Rs. 750 supplemented by mother’s income as a teacher. There was also a ‘waiting list', for the racquets had to be imported. He was adamant, I would play tennis and I would have my very own racquet.
A lover of English literature and the old but evergreen songs, many were the evenings spent reading poetry, having a sing-song or discussing Dickens, Tagore, Shelley, Blake et al.
My introduction to Rabindranath Tagore came one early morn, when Daddy, having undertaken to teach my sister English Literature which she was offering as a subject for the Ordinary Level examination, was going into the intricacies of a story about ‘The Postmaster’. The Postmaster, sent to a remote village in India had taken on the task of teaching Ratan the servant girl, but leaves her heartbroken when loneliness and illness drive him back to his own home. By the end of that lesson, there was one little bleary-eyed girl in a home in Dehiwela sobbing her heart out, moved not only by the story itself but also the way it was told.
Of course, it would be a person as foolhardy as Daddy who would bring home a variety of wild animals and attempt to keep them at the same time. A tiny cub he rescued after its mother had been killed in the jungles and both he and my mother fed by dipping a cloth in milk and squeezing it into its mouth and later bottle-fed (the joke at home being that as I was a baby at that time, the same bottles were used), was a sleek leopard he named ‘Kolla’ which roamed our home in Anuradhapura in the early ’60s. ‘Kolla’ would “saw” out a welcome when it heard Daddy driving home from work, while the car was still far away or be so intrigued by the clacking of the old typewriter, when he was writing his stories, that it would keep its forepaws on Daddy’s shoulders and head on his head and watch intently for a long time. At the same time, there were ducks and hares in enclosures just outside the window, with ‘Kolla’ looking longingly but not able to get at such easy prey.
There were many monkeys, kalaweddas and even a huge sambhur with spreading antlers, with women-visitors, feeling a tug finding to their horror that it had eaten up half their saree-falls. No clothes could be kept on the line to dry for they would end up in the sambhur’s jaws.
There have also been many dogs in our lives, from Alsatians and Labradors to a few picked up from the street. Some my father saved from the venomous bite of the polonga and once I saw him shed a tear when a faithful named Caesar died.
Although Daddy was a keen hunter of wild boar which destroyed the crops of the humble villagers in those days of the 1960s, he was at the same time a strong conservationist fighting for the preservation of forest cover and beauty spots such as Wilpattu where he would roam with the Park Rangers. Many were the short stories that he wrote about his jungle forays under the pseudonym Mercutio, EmEh and Jungle Wallah for the old Times of Ceylon and Mirror.
To me, however, the most important essence of his life was what he stood for – justice and fairplay. He would fight tooth and nail not only through his writings, newspaper articles and books, but even on the street for this. A staunch Catholic, with unshakeable faith in Jesus Christ and the Perpetual Succour, he was also a defender of every other religion, with the Atamasthanadipathi (Chief Monk of the Atamasthanaya – the eight most sacred Buddhist places of worship) of that era in Anuradhapura being his lifelong friend.
Way back in the 1960s, Sundays were special days for us. We would attend mass and then on our way back tuck into hot, spicy seeni sambol buns from Salgado’s, a landmark bakery in the days of yore. It was on such a Sunday that, passing a petrol station, my father spotted a criminal (those days they were called IRCs – island reconvicted criminals) assaulting a well-known Tamil lawyer. There was no hesitation -- unlike these days when most of us would pretend not to have seen and drive by – and stop we did our car and out he went to grapple with the criminal who was brandishing a knife, allowing the lawyer to make a hasty getaway.
It was the same when the 1958 riots broke out – hearing that many Tamil irrigation engineers were trapped at their stations unable to get back to Jaffna, my father took it upon himself to go forth into the villages which he knew like the back of his hand, bring them back to Anuradhapura, keep them in our home amidst many a threat and drive them to Jaffna himself, facing mobs of looters and rioters on the way.
When a gang attacked and robbed a Muslim boutique close to our home in Dehiwela in the ’70s, it was my father, on hearing the shouts for help, who grabbed his double-barrel gun and shot at the robbers, while neighbours locked and barred their doors. Later, we found a sword that one robber had dropped, while police picked him up a distance away, as he could not escape due to gunshot wounds.
Little things he did have stayed with us forever. Even a few years before his death, when a group of soldiers were on a search operation in the Nugegoda area, he had asked them whether they had a search warrant, ever a stickler to the laws of the land.
Five years after his death (his death anniversary fell on June 8), my heart soars whenever I hear not only my daughter and son but also all my nieces and nephews have heated arguments about right and wrong.
For, what Daddy epitomised and what he fearlessly spoke and wrote about, justice and fairplay, live on through them. Clear whites and blacks -- no greys. It’s either right or wrong and two wrongs never-ever make a right.
Podi Putha
Who can forget that smile of yours
Damith Amarasuriya
Damith, youngest son of Hemaka and Anoma Amarasuriya and brother of Dileeka and Thushan passed away on Wednesday, May 23. The news of his death gave me a real shock. I just could not believe it as I have never known Damith to have been ill. I knew him as a small boy because I taught him to play the piano. Damith always had a charming smile. I have never seen him with a grumpy look.
I still visit their home once a week as I teach music to his mother and after each lesson Damith would always see me to his gate to say “bye”. Yes! He was such a darling. He had brought me two tiny Koala Bears from Australia which he hung up in my car and he would make it a point to check often to make sure they were still there. Then he would smile and say, “Yes, Aunty Yvonne they are still there”.
Seated in their dining room after a lesson together with his parents, I used to crack many jokes and we all laughed and enjoyed my naughty jokes and I would tell Damith “Ha ha you have a hora look and smile, and then you look just like your father”.
He was such a lovable boy and it is a pity to think that a growing tree has been cut.
Damith was talented in art and his drawings with crayons on large sheets of paper were wonderful. In fact he just won an award. I wonder if he collected this?
I know his absence from their home will always be felt, as you would always see him walking around all the time. I know for certain that I will miss him when I go there as he made it a point to come near the piano and say “Hello” and after the lesson carry my bag and escort me to my car. Now, Damith you are gone and I will never see you again. However, your charming smile and memory will always remain in my heart for it’s locked in letters of gold.
Goodbye Sweet Prince –sleep on.
A loving Aunt,
Yvonne F. Keerthisingha
A short life of
accolades, blood, sweat, tears and smiles
Wasim Thajudeen
“Machaaaaang!!!” resonates in my ears even today. It’s been nearly six months since I heard that and a week since anyone else would have either. The tone, the pitch, and most of all, the enthusiasm of that sound could only belong to one man.
In the very early hours of May 17, this year, the human race lost one of our best. It’s commonplace for people to only remember the goodness of those departed and who can blame them? This memory is all that lasts until we ourselves leave all behind, and hope those around us will follow suit and forget our sins and weaknesses.
However, what of those who truly were incredibly good? What of those who fought for the underdog? And what of those who showed compassion and kindness when arrogance and pride would be more convenient? Those like Wasim Thajudeen.
Wasim Thajudeen was a friend. He was a friend who we at school felt had the Midas touch. He liked cricket, tried it out, and captained the school team. He loved rugby, tried it, and was fast tracked right through the age groups and even played for S. Thomas’ College Mount Lavinia before the ink on his S. Thomas’ Prep School leaving certificate was dry.
Prep School is where he grew up. As children, we spend more waking hours in school than at home. Wasim loved his school, and the school, whether it be the students, teachers, or non-academic staff, loved him right back. Those who played cricket under him showed genuine respect for the leadership qualities he possessed even at that young age. As part of the 39th Colombo Scout troop, he excelled at all tasks and tests. At rugby, he was simply a legend.
Wasim, like his brother Asfan, went on to play First XV rugby at S. Thomas’ College, Mount Lavinia soon after joining the school. This was indeed rare for a Prepite who would usually have to work his way up the age group teams, but talent scouts had seen him play for Prep, and after try-outs they were in no doubt that they saw a future star. His passion and enthusiasm sometimes needed to be reined in, as all who have seen him play would recall his familiarity with the sin-bin! But it was this raw passion he had for the sport, and indeed life that made him all the more endearing. He became a popular Vice Captain of the team whom the youngsters would look up to and adore.
He soon represented and subsequently captained Havelocks Sports Club and went on to play for Sri Lanka in Rugby Sevens, which no doubt was a highlight of his short professional career. After injury cut short his promising career at Havies he focused his energy on his other life as an up and coming star in the travel and tourism scene, which was blossoming in Sri Lanka after the end of a bitter 30 year civil war. One glance at his LinkedIn professional networking profile page shows he has nearly 30 recommendations for his work. Closer inspection shows 23 of those are from his clients. There is no better proof that the young man who spent most of his childhood hours at Prep had grown up to be an honest, respected, hardworking, and genuine gentleman. The school can take pride that it has produced such an outstanding citizen whose life, although short, was lived to the fullest with not only achievements and accolades, but also with blood, sweat, and tears. And with smiles. Always with smiles.
The batch of 2000 of S. Thomas’ Preparatory School, Kollupitiya is mourning the loss of a brother. We know he loved his family with all his heart. The love and dedication he showed his nephew proved in no uncertain terms that he would have been an amazing father. We send his family our condolences and we wish them peace. And we thank them for sharing Wasim with us. Our lives are richer for growing up with him. Our memories of him will remain close to our hearts and for the rest of our lives.
A friend |
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